Murder in Hyde Park

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Sorry,’ Hislop said. ‘I touched a raw nerve.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ Wendy said. ‘I needed to know if you were a decent man; if I could trust you.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Let’s proceed. Christine’s easy, I know that. Not only back then.’

  ‘I was seventeen, silly and stupid as I said, but I’d known the sisters all my life, even when we were toddlers. It was always Gwen for me, but she’s not the same as her sister. She’s the ring on the finger type, and I was hot, and there’s Christine. That’s how it was. It was only a couple of times, and Gwen never knew, married me at nineteen. Happy as could be, I was.’

  ‘You seemed to resent my coming here when I phoned you from London.’

  ‘Just suspicious as to your motives. As I said, it’s been a long time since Gwen and Christine.’

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  Hislop called out through the office door. ‘Mavis, a couple of teas if you don’t mind. Two sugars and milk for me.’

  ‘The same for me,’ Wendy said. Looking at the state of the office, the general decay, the dirt on the floor, it was clear to her that the business wasn’t prospering and that money was tight.

  Mavis came in, left the teas on Hislop’s desk, smiled at Wendy, winked at Hislop. Wendy could see that the man’s taste in women was suburban. Mavis was no Christine, not even a Wendy Gladstone, but a woman in her forties, her arms covered in tattoos, even the knuckles of the fingers. She also smelt of mothballs, and her taste in clothing was eclectic. All in all, Wendy had to admit to not being impressed with the man’s assistant.

  Wendy took a drink from her mug. ‘I know about the child,’ she said.

  ‘It was only later that we found out that I was at fault. I blamed Gwen, thought that she was not getting pregnant to spite me.’

  ‘But I thought you two were in love, destined for each other.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘The marriage soured?’

  ‘No violence, no harsh words, but the love that I felt for her didn’t last, the same for her. We divorced, and that was that. I’ve not seen her for a very long time. How is she?’

  ‘Both women are fine,’ Wendy said. She wasn’t in Liverpool to reunite old friends, to natter about past loves, lost opportunities. ‘When you found out that Christine had miscarried, what did you think?’

  ‘Angry, very angry. Confused, I suppose. When you’re young, you see everything as black and white, not shades of grey.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I would have liked to be a father, but it doesn’t seem so important now.’

  ‘Christine through no fault of her own had cheated you out of your one chance. Is that a hatred that could lead to violence?’

  ‘Sergeant, what are you implying? That I travelled to London, and then killed Christine’s lover?’

  ‘I need to know your level of anguish. As we feel our mortality, the slowing down, the aches and pains, the waning libido, we all reflect on our past; it’s only natural. You have no legacy to pass on to future generations. Does that worry you?’

  ‘Yes, if you must know. But the idea that I would kill someone important to her makes no sense. I’m not a violent man, not vengeful, and my libido’s still active. Shooting blanks hasn’t helped, but it hasn’t harmed me either.’

  ‘An alibi?’

  ‘Whatever you want. I’ve not been to London in five years, and that was only for a couple of days.’

  ‘Where did you stay?’

  ‘Somewhere central. I can’t remember the name.’

  ‘Five stars?’

  ‘It wasn’t that good. Somewhere that looked great on the internet with its views of London, but didn’t have any, not unless you climbed on the roof.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hislop. I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced. You were a person of interest. I had to come and meet with you.’

  ‘If you see either of them, please give them my best wishes.’

  ‘I will. I like Christine, although Gwen is not so easy to read.’

  ‘They’ve not changed, and yes, Christine’s a good person. Did she kill the man?’

  ‘That information is confidential. However, I hope she did not.’

  ‘But she may have?’

  ‘As I said, our enquiries are ongoing. I don’t want her to be guilty, but whoever is the murderer, I will do my duty,’ Wendy said as she thanked Hislop for his time. She thought she had wasted the day coming north, but the investigation into Terry Hislop was not closed yet.

  ***

  Bridget spent time in the office going through the information that Nick Domett of Gents for Hire had supplied. Wendy’s description of the man, charming and entertaining on the phone, disappointing in the flesh, had tempered the women’s joking about him and his saucy repartee.

  Larry was working with Bridget and following up on the details supplied by Domett. No surprises yet, apart from the fact that the murdered man had swung both ways, and that his clientele had included both men and women. Larry was no fool, and he’d been out on the street and into the underbelly of society. He knew of people’s perversions, their needs, their weaknesses.

  The first person he met up with, a chartered accountant in the city, a tired-looking man who carried his sixty-six years poorly, did not appreciate having a police inspector in his outer office, his personal assistant curious as to what was going on.

  ‘Mr Cranwell is a great boss. I’ve been here eight years, and I’ve never seen the police here before,’ the middle-aged woman said. She was an efficient woman, Larry decided. Probably lived on her own, her only company an old cat that looked just like her, minus the accoutrements, of course. But Larry realised that evaluations of people based on appearances could sometimes be wrong. Bridget dressed sensibly in the office and was as efficient as the PA, yet she had had lovers and flings, and he and Isaac always suspected that Bridget’s and Wendy’s trips to the sun occasionally involved more than the sun, siesta, and a tan, although in Bridget’s case it was more a burn than tan.

  ‘Inspector, what can I do for you?’ Eustace Cranwell said as he opened his door. His hand outstretched, he grabbed Larry’s firmly and shook it vigorously. Defence mechanism, Larry thought. A show for the PA who pretended to be looking at a computer screen, but her eyeballs were angled up. Police training and experience had taught Larry to look for the unseen. No sign of intimacy between the accountant and the woman, but then the man had been using the services of a male prostitute.

  Larry walked into the man’s office. It was scrupulously clean, a desk in the far corner, close to the window. On one side of the room, a large bookcase, full of mementoes, family photos, and financial books, none of which would have meant much to Larry.

  With the door closed, Cranwell’s manner changed, no longer the smiling welcome. ‘I was disturbed by your phone call, Inspector Hill,’ he said as he leaned back on his chair, attempting to look at ease, failing miserably. The man’s right hand had a slight tremor: the early sign of illness, or just nerves. Larry decided on close inspection that the redness in Cranwell’s face, the sweating, indicated it was nerves. The man had been sprung, and he didn’t like it.

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of a man you knew as Colin Young.’

  ‘Inspector, surely you must be mistaken. I don’t know of any such man.’

  ‘Fine. Here or at Challis Street. It makes no difference to me, but I assume you have a reputation to protect.’

  ‘I’m well respected, a happily married man, three children, all of them making successes of their lives. A scandal would destroy them, me.’

  ‘I’m not the moral police. If you want to indulge in whatever with another consenting male, that’s down to your conscience, not mine. We need to solve a crime, and you are only one on our list. Tell me openly and in your own time where and when, and what you knew of the man, and then I’ll be on my way. Probably you’ll never hear from another police officer or me again. Lie, a
nd it’ll be the third degree. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘In your own time,’ Larry said as the man sat quietly, unsure what to say, having to speak words that he did not want to utter.

  ‘I met Colin Young on two occasions. I have a flat near to the office. It’s only small, and my wife never visits.’

  ‘Where is your wife?’

  ‘She’s in Sevenoaks, not far on the train, but if I’ve been working late, then I’ll stay in London for the night. It’s a weakness, but sometimes…’

  ‘I’m not here to pass judgement or to offer an opinion. I need the facts, nothing else.’

  ‘Very well. Sometimes...’

  ‘Please, Mr Cranwell, the sooner you talk, the sooner I’ll be out of here.’

  ‘It’s just difficult, you must understand.’

  ‘The facts.’

  ‘I remember him well, anyone would.’

  ‘Beautiful?’

  ‘You met him?’

  ‘Never, but that word’s been used by others.’

  ‘Men?’

  ‘You’re the first. Women mainly.’

  ‘He would come over to the flat. Two hours later he would leave, set your clock by him. There’s no more to tell.’

  ‘We had him as heterosexual.’

  ‘He was unemotional during the two hours. To him, it was mechanical.’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘I felt something, but afterwards, I was ashamed. I’m afraid I got drunk with a bottle of whisky after each time.’

  ‘Yet you continued with him.’

  ‘Only two times.’

  ‘What about him? The sort of man to form enemies?’

  ‘The sort of man to fall in love with.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. But with rejected love comes anger and then hatred then violence.’

  ‘Are you a violent man?’

  ‘I’m just a weak man, nothing more.’

  As Larry left, the door behind him being closed quickly, the PA looked up from her laptop. ‘Mr Cranwell?’ she said. Larry hoped she had not been standing close to the door when the man had unburdened himself.

  ***

  ‘My wife has taken a turn for the worse,’ Stanley Montgomery said on the phone to Isaac.

  ‘Serious?’ Isaac’s reply wasn’t what the unpleasant Montgomery wanted to hear.

  ‘If you hadn’t interfered, I could have dealt with it, but now she’s in the hospital, refusing to eat. They’ve put her on an intravenous drip, not that it’s going to help, not in the long run.’

  ‘If there’s anything we can do.’ Isaac knew it was the right thing to say, but what did it mean? Neither he nor the Homicide Department could change the fact that the woman’s son had been murdered and her daughter had committed suicide.

  ‘I’m holding you personally responsible, and I’ll be making a public statement in due course. I’m also investigating legal action against the police in the handling of this matter.’

  ‘That’s your prerogative, Mr Montgomery. Tragic as it is, it is still a murder investigation. The truth must be revealed, the murderer brought to justice. You have been inconvenienced, as has your wife. I’m sorry about that, but that’s how it is. Take legal advice if you must, talk to the press, but you will achieve little, only more sorrow for yourself and your poor wife.’

  ‘Smooth words, Cook, but what do they mean? My wife is who I care about, not you and your precious police force. My daughter is dead because of you.’

  ‘Because of us?’

  ‘Yes, because of you.’

  ‘How? We never knew of her, not even your son’s true identity. If she died, it is because you told her about Barry, which means that you have lied to us. Did you kill your son?’

  ‘I did not. We will talk again in the courts. My wife is dying of a broken heart, and I need to be with her.’

  ‘Mr Montgomery, her death is on your account, not mine,’ Isaac said in a rare bout of anger.

  Afterwards, he sat down and reflected on what had been said, and whether the father was a murderer. But first, he needed to go to the hospital where Mrs Montgomery was. He wasn’t sure if it would help; it just seemed the right thing to do.

  ***

  Christine Mason reacted with alarm when Wendy outlined what needed to happen next.

  ‘But you can’t. My husband, my career.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but there’s no alternative. We need to bring in your manager. He’s been blackmailing you, treating you as his personal plaything.’

  ‘I will go to jail,’ Christine said. The two women were sitting at the bar in the hotel, the manager hovering, but out of hearing range. They both kept to a fruit juice, although Wendy would have preferred something stiffer. She knew that she had promised to try and keep Christine out of the investigation as much as possible, but embezzlement, blackmail, a young lover, an offensive hotel manager who took his payment in money and sexual services, kept bringing the investigation back to her.

  Wendy still hoped that she was innocent, just a hapless person whose weakness for affection and physical contact had brought her centre stage once again.

  ‘I hope not,’ Wendy said. ‘You’ve cooperated with the police. That’ll go in your favour.’

  ‘My job?’

  ‘The truth must prevail. I can’t stop this. Either you work with me on this, or it’ll be a black mark.’

  ‘My husband?’

  ‘He needs to be interviewed. We have all the pieces of the jigsaw in front of us. It is now time to complete that puzzle. Others will be hurt, and we know that Colin’s mother is close to death.’

  ‘From what? Was she a good woman?’

  ‘Malnutrition, a weak heart, years of being brow-beaten.’

  ‘She has suffered as well. I am sorry for her.’

  ‘Will you cooperate?’

  ‘If I must,’ Christine said, her face downcast.

  Chapter 19

  Larry wasn’t prepared for the next person on Domett’s list. Cranwell had been polite, even if ashamed of what he had done, but it wouldn’t stop him spending time and money with another man in the future. After him, there had been two other men. One was a retired police officer in his seventies, which had not been an easy interview, even though the man had answered the questions, graphically as it turned out.

  Larry wasn’t naive, but it was a subject he preferred to read about, not hear about, and not in the jargon used by a former police inspector. The man’s alibi was watertight and he wasn’t ashamed of what had occurred.

  The third man, Justin Grinstead, no more than Colin Young’s age, was someone who sat behind a computer screen all day, playing video games.

  ‘I’m a nerd,’ he said.

  ‘You must need money?’ Larry said, looking around him at the discarded packets of crisps, the empty pizza boxes, the general mayhem. Outside the house, it had looked fine, the home of successful people. Inside, decay.

  ‘My parents died young, left me this house.’

  ‘When was the last time you left it?’

  ‘Three weeks. No reason to go out. Order everything online, pay someone to put the rubbish bin out.’

  ‘And clean the house?’

  ‘Sometimes, a lady comes in, but she doesn’t come often.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘She doesn’t like me, I don’t like her. Mutual hate and she thinks I stink. I don’t, do I, Inspector?’

  ‘Tell me about Colin Young.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Five years ago. A man described as beautiful by more than one person. A person you ordered online.’

  ‘That’s a long time ago, a few video games in the past.’

  ‘An addiction?’ Larry asked, aware that his son enjoyed video games to the detriment of his studies. There had been a minor disturbance in the Hill household when a computer expert from a local IT shop had come in and put blockers on disturbing sites that were not conducive to the upbringing of a child
approaching adolescence. The games had all been deleted as well. But the expert had said, ‘He’ll find a workaround in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘According to you, it is,’ Grinstead said.

  An unpleasant, insular individual, Larry realised. ‘You’ve used a company called Gents for Hire?’

  ‘I may have. What’s it to you?’

  ‘To me, nothing. I’m from Homicide. A man that you paid for using your credit card has been murdered. And I don’t need graphic detail; I’ve already had that today. Now, do you remember him or do I have to pull the plug on your computer.’

  ‘I’ve got it backed up.’

  Larry walked over to the computer monitor and pressed the off switch.

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I can, and I have. Now, do you remember the man in question?’

  ‘Vaguely. That’s it, nothing more.’

  ‘You are obviously intelligent, yet “vaguely” is the best you can come up with?’

  ‘There’s thousands online, no need to rent them. Virtual reality, streaming internet; it’s wonderful.’

  Larry felt sickened by the man and what he was describing.

  ***

  ‘I remember him well enough,’ the owner of the final name on the list supplied by Domett said. The woman lived well, Larry could see that. She was attractive, in her fifties, older than Christine Mason. It was clear that money was not a factor in her life, judging by the antiques and the oil paintings in the penthouse flat.

  ‘I was keen on him,’ Nancy Bartlett continued. ‘He’d come here sometimes, other times we’d go away for a couple of days in the country.’

  ‘Romantic weekend?’ Larry asked. He appreciated the woman’s openness.

  ‘With Colin, guaranteed. Tell me why you’re here, and then I’ll give you the full story. A beer, wine?’

  ‘I’m on duty. I should keep to non-alcoholic.’

  ‘You’re not in the army. I’ll fetch two beers for us.’